


Drumbeat

by gallifreyanlibertea



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: CHECK NOTES FOR TRIGGER WARNINGS, Cardverse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 12:09:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13589772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyanlibertea/pseuds/gallifreyanlibertea
Summary: Alfred has waited for years for his king magic to surface, and he finally finds it for the first time... following the bullet that tore through his Queen's shoulder.





	Drumbeat

**Author's Note:**

> Possible triggers: blood, injury, a bit of violence and slight mention of homophobia but dw there is a happy ending! I literally cannot do sad stuff! Please let me know if anything else needs to be tagged because I will do it as soon as I can.

Alfred’s heart hammered like a drumbeat in his ears, and the last time it had done that was when he’d fallen out of a tree long ago.

He was only a boy then. He remembered hearing his mother scream, a faint noise as if he was hearing it submerged in water- he remembered seeing the tear-streaked faces of his parents hovering over him, voices bubbling together as they begged for Alfred to tell them he could hear them, to tell them he was okay.

Alfred supposed he looked the same to his beloved husband, clutching at Arthur Kirkland’s cold, pale hand, drums thundering in Alfred’s ears, “Arthur? Baby, can you hear me? Arthur?”

Arthur’s response was a choke, green eyes glistening with fresh tears, a hand flitting to the gunshot wound in his shoulder.

See, Alfred loved the smell of apples.

Not the scent itself, really, more the fresh smell of the apple orchard his ancestors planted a few miles from the castle, in a grove hidden from the public. He loved the leaves that rustled with the wind gusting through the trees, he loved the way it made Arthur’s hair dance, like golden wheat on a prairie, and Arthur would wrinkle his nose, hands flapping at his head in a wild attempt to tame it.

The wind had been particularly rough that morning and Arthur had hated it. He took solace under Alfred’s arm as the two shuffled under their favourite tree, lips finding each other’s for a small peck as they settled onto a cloth thrown over the ground.

“We have a while before he finds us,” Alfred said, and Arthur snorted.

“Yeah, maybe less- he’s getting better at tracking us down.”

Arthur loved the smell of roses. He had watched with a badly-hidden smile as Alfred had fished a bouquet out of their picnic basket, presenting it to his husband with a kiss onto those knuckles, and Arthur’s smile was fond, warm.

“I love you.”

“I know.” Alfred had said, and Arthur had hit him, and it was perfect. The weather was perfect, the food was perfect,  _Arthur was perfect,_  hell, even their advisor, Yao Wang, stomping onto their site with eyes wild, for the millionth time that week, had been perfect.

_“Your Highnesses!”_  He’d practically screeched, and Arthur had laughed, burrowing into Alfred’s side in mock terror. Alfred had pulled Arthur to his chest, and it seemed like hours ago. It seemed like years ago, centuries. “You can’t keep coming out here, it’s not safe! You-”

Fireworks.

Alfred loved fireworks, so much so that Arthur would go out of his way to set up a show for his every birthday after they’d gotten married. It was foreign to him to hear the noise in broad daylight, however; it was a loud crack, startling Alfred’s spine straight, startling Yao behind the tree, startling Arthur slack in Alfred’s arms with a wound like a crimson rose blooming from his uniform, with those eyes wide, lips parted for a gasp.

Alfred was underwater.

“Arthur, please, can you-?” Alfred’s tongue was numb, “Are you okay? Arthur-”

“We must take cover.” Yao hissed, “The guards have surely heard by now, Your Highness, they’ll be here soon-!”

_“Arthur!”_

“I’m alright.” Arthur choked out, head tilting into the hands of his husband, who took to swiping away at the tears that streaked down Arthur’s cheeks at the shock of the impact, at the pain. “I’m…”

Sadness and worry became anger. 

Alfred could feel the blood boiling in his veins, jaw clenched, fists balled,  _he would hunt whoever did this and rip them apart muscle by muscle to hang on the castle walls_ \- and as the knot in Alfred’s throat pushed further into his body, like burning, clawed hands clutching at Alfred’s heart and lungs, squeezing until Alfred was sure his next breath could be his last… Arthur paused.

He just simply paused, and it took Alfred a minute to pull away in horror, breath lodged in his chest at the sight of his husband frozen in time, as if the life had been sucked out of him. “Arthur?”

Alfred’s heart hammered in his ears, the dull throb of a noise sliced open by a sort of ringing that cut through, piercing his eardrums until Alfred scrambled to his feet with hands clamped at his ears, jaw clenched in a hiss.

Yao stared at the space beside Alfred’s head, unblinking.

The grass lay beneath Alfred’s feet, unmoving.

Alfred’s fingers twitched.

Fifteen years ago, he had knelt at the palace grounds, hands tearing at the grass beneath him, teeth bared in a growl, and Alfred’s mother was at his side, calm hands tugging her son into her lap, “Don’t frustrate yourself, my love, it will come.”

He’d been told at his age that princes already practised their magic. Even if it was only a small flicker in their fingers, a small spark in the charged air around them, it was there to harness. There was no such thing for Alfred Jones, son of King Edward, a man who’d changed his name from a loving _Samuel_ to one that demanded respect, and Alfred expected to be that someday. He expected to be respected. He expected to wield a power so immense that it would rattle those who even dared to betray him.

He couldn’t full well expect the throne, however, if he couldn’t protect it. He’d screamed and cried and his mother had lulled him to sleep that night, “It will come, your magic will come.”

Upon the gunshot that tore into his husband, the shard of glass that tore into Alfred’s heart, it finally came, and Alfred decided he would have rather lived his whole life without an ounce of magic than to witness his husband in pain.

_His husband in pain._ Alfred blinked, turning upon a whim, eyes narrowing as he scanned their surroundings, “Who did this? Reveal yourself!”

Underwater. Alfred’s words left his lips moments after he’d moved them. It was an echo that received no response.

It was strange, foreign, he didn’t like it. He parted his lips for words, an action he stopped abruptly to clamp his mouth shut again in defeat.

What use was there? He doubted anyone could hear him.

No one, not even Alfred’s beloved husband, laid against their tree with features contorted in pain, hand clutching his shoulder, other hand outstretched, as if seeking the touch of Alfred’s palm, as if seeking the touch of their fingers intertwined.

Not even Alfred’s advisor, who stood with an expression Alfred had never seen on him before. Fear.

The man was always so calm and collected it drove Alfred insane trying to break him, and he supposed he finally did. Yao Wang was never afraid- angry? Yes, definitely. He’d tell Alfred time and time again not to leave the castle without a guard, eyes wide and wild, as if he were a mother scolding a child, and Alfred would snicker, dismissing him with a flick of his wrist.

Alfred should’ve listened today.

He should’ve stayed home, he should’ve paid heed to the words Yao had whispered to him the night before, after pulling him aside at dinner, glancing over his back to ensure the Queen was out of earshot. “It’s getting worse, Your Majesty.”

“It’s not Arthur’s fault!” Alfred had protested, “Don’t they know that?”

“It’s best if you keep yourselves out of the eye of the public.” Yao had warned, and Alfred should’ve listened.

He should’ve listened because his kingdom was not nearly as kind as Alfred was to it. His subjects adored him, nevertheless, and why wouldn’t they? The whole country had watched Alfred grow up; he was the crown prince. They’d watched his televised first steps, his first words; they’d watched him giggle in his father’s lap as he toured the streets on a carriage, they’d gasped as Alfred was hospitalized at a young age for his silly tree-climbing antics, they’d seen everything, and they _loved him_. That’s what they called it. Love.

_Their love_ meant more than what a king, or any human on Earth, deserved. Their love meant they couldn’t stand watching Alfred be arranged to marry a lowly farmhand from the countrysides, a man who’d been dragged into the castle sunburnt, caked in mud, with calloused hands tearing at the guards that pulled his shirt to reveal the mark of the Queen.

A peasant, unworthy,  _a man._

Their love meant that Arthur Kirkland, the man Alfred had fallen in love with the moment he’d met him (despite the meeting having consisted of Arthur hissing that _there were better ways to handle the situation without undressing me publically in your throne room_  to an Alfred who listened with a dreamy smile on his face at the first sight of those beautiful green eyes), was a target. He was not the beautiful noblewoman Alfred’s subjects thought he deserved, he had the scowl of a misunderstood man, and Alfred had begged to the stars time and time again in hopes that his kingdom would see Arthur for what he truly was.

It was a wish in vain because it had not gotten better. It was getting worse, and Alfred was an idiot for bringing Arthur outside, even if it was to get away from the stress of life just to _be with one_ _another_ , because that made everything his fault.

The blood that soaked into Arthur’s uniform was Alfred’s fault. The pain in those eyes was Alfred’s fault. He wanted to scream, wanted to babble out an apology, wanted to do something, but no one would hear him.

Nobody, not even the man Alfred spotted hiding in the bushes with a gun.

Red.

Alfred had seen red skies many times- a sunrise, a sunset- but they had never come with the sharp taste of metal on his tongue, the simmering of red-hot blood in his veins, a jaw that clenched so tight his teeth hurt.

And the twitching in Alfred’s fingers became a burn, a feeling that was only quenched the minute his hands squeezed around the man’s neck.

_“Y- Your Majesty!”_ Yao shrieked, and Alfred supposed the world around him had kickstarted once again. He felt the ground beneath him croak into life, a gust of wind billowing in every direction, combing the grass flat, and Alfred found it all around him, as if he were the source itself.

He didn’t feel the weight as he hoisted the stranger into the air like a rag doll. Alfred’s lips parted for a snarl, yet he found that in all the emotions within his chest, none of them surfaced in the shape of words. His tongue was numb.

A gun clattered to the ground. The man squirmed in Alfred’s grip. Alfred squeezed tighter.

“Alfred, I’m alright, my love!”

And Alfred wondered why such a tone had crept into his beloved’s voice, the tone reflecting onto the look on Arthur’s face as Alfred turned to face him: a wide-eyed, silent gasp.

It was then, he realized, the impossible height at which he’d been singlehandedly choking the bastard.

It felt wrong. The grip felt like an embrace, a soft grip of a father’s hand in his child’s, and Alfred knew he had the capability to snap the man’s neck in half with two fingers- he knew just a tad more pressure, and _crack,_  the heinous man in his hand would breathe his last, and it was more than what he deserved.

It seemed only yesterday Arthur had struggled with a particularly stubborn jar lid and Alfred had snuck up behind him, twisting it open with ease, and Arthur had looked at him with a smile playing on his lips, “My, my, aren’t we impressive?”

Arthur didn’t seem to find Alfred impressive then. Alfred could barely hear the words that left his lips, “Alfred… let him go,  _please.”_

The last thing he remembered was Yao’s hands gripping the sides of his face, hovering over him with lips moving for words Alfred couldn’t hear.

It was the last thing that played in his mind like a broken record when he’d shot up in bed with a gasp, only to be coaxed back down by cool, porcelain hands. “Hello, you.”

“… Arthur.”

Alfred’s lips twitched into a smile at the vision of his husband swimming into view. He frowned upon finding those lips pursed in worry, brows furrowed,  _shoulder bandaged._

“You nearly scared the wits out of Yao.” Arthur muttered, “You- I didn’t know you could…”

Alfred’s eyes fluttered shut as Arthur leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to his lips. He opened his eyes to a relieved smile. “Knew I could do what?”

“You should’ve seen yourself, you were practically _glowing_ , like some sort of ethereal being.”

Glowing. Alfred moved to sit up, finding himself coaxed back down. “Magic?”

“Don’t sit up, you’re far too weak. And yes, magic.” Arthur confirmed with a smile. “The stars played a cruel game giving you super strength, you know how weak in the knees that makes me. I’d shoot myself again if it meant I’d get to see you crush boulders in your fists and- and, well,” He chuckled for a bit, cheeks tinted in a mixture of shame and arousal and Alfred let himself laugh lightly along. That was, until those brows pushed back together in worry, “Alfred, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know I could do it, and  _believe me_ if I knew it turned you on this much-”

Arthur didn’t smile. “About the kingdom not being… fond of me, I mean.”

“You didn’t need to know.” Alfred found himself replying, to which Arthur’s eyes flashed.

“I’ve had a bloody assassination attempt on me just now, Alfred, I think I needed to know.”

“I didn’t want you to be upset,” Alfred said.

Arthur liked their bed. He would always be the first to burrow underneath the sheets, toes curling into the soft layers of the blankets Alfred would order the maids to line their mattress with- Just for Arthur, just for the contented, tired smile on his face as he drifted away to sleep.

Arthur didn’t seem to like the bed Alfred was in: a cold, starchy-white cot in the castle’s infirmary. Arthur ran through the material of Alfred’s blanket between his fingers, eyes averted from Alfred’s gaze for what seemed like hours until he bore green eyes back into blue.

“The man who shot me is in jail.”

“Good.” Alfred snapped and Arthur averted his eyes again, turning his attention to half-heartedly rearranging the flowers in the vase beside Alfred’s bed. “Hey, Art?”

“What?”

“I love you.”

“I know,” Arthur replied with a wicked grin and Alfred rolled his eyes, flopping onto his side as Arthur motioned for him to make more space on the bed. “I can hardly argue, my love, you nearly popped the eyes out of a man’s sockets for me.”

It took a few awkward shoves and snickers, but Arthur was in bed, he was running his fingers through Alfred’s hair, and Alfred gave in to the temptation of sleep that tugged at his eyelids. “In all seriousness, you scared me, Alfred, you became someone you were not. Please, don’t do it again.”

“I shall hope I never have to,” Alfred said.

And there it was yet again, the drumbeat in his ears. It was not, however, the one that taunted him as a child when he’d fallen out of a tree, nor the one that echoed in his head at the event that brought magic surging through him for the first time, a strength that rendered his advisor speechless, a strength he would finally use to clutch at his kingdom’s respect and keep those whose motives threatened Alfred’s happiness, whether intentional or not, cowering at bay.

It was instead one of the last things Alfred heard as his ear pressed against his queen’s chest: a drumbeat in his ears from the euphonic rhythm of Arthur’s beating heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous asked: hey... just wondering.... if u wanted.... maybe u could write a very very angry Alfred who just saw Arthur get injured badly (but not fatally) and he gets... real mad and like decimates everyone w his king magic... in a Cardverse AU????? I feel like you'd write it very well and I would love you forever....


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